Quiet Dark
by Mizu Iruka
Summary: S8 fix-it. Set after the first trial. Sam's drunk, it's 2:00 AM, but hey, since when has Dean's life been easy? Though maybe, just maybe, it's the right combination to make things okay again. Oneshot.


Dean was dragged out of sleep by something indistinguishable. He held back a groan. Ever since Purgatory, (ever since Hell), whenever he woke up in the middle of the night, he could never get back to sleep. He would just resign himself to research or bad TV or something.

A second later, he realized what had woken him. Sam wasn't in his bed. His brother was on the other side of the room, hunched over the small motel table, bottle between his hands.

Dean was taking a while to process things, sleep-muddled mind working to connect the dots. He sat up slowly, unwilling to leave Sam to drink at . . . Dean glanced at the clock and was forced once more to resist the urge to groan. 2:00 AM. Fantastic. Dean swung his legs off his bed, scrubbing his face and willing himself to get clear-headed. He was too old for this.

Dean made himself focus. This was probably about the trials. Dean crushed the slight panic that flared at the thought. Because this was Sam on what could be a suicide mission, and that didn't sit well with him. Dean had the brief thought that maybe he could get Sam to change his mind, hunt down another hellhound. Maybe. It was worth a shot.

Dean ambled over to drop into the chair opposite of Sam. He was ignored.

"Little late for this, huh Sammy?" he said.

Sam only grunted. Dean raised an eyebrow. This wasn't just a drink after a bad nightmare. This was Sam nearly drunk. The last time he had seen Sam drunk was . . . well . . . Dean found himself frowning. Neither of them let had let themselves get completely drunk since the Apocalypse started. Which was years ago. Because getting plastered was leaving yourself vulnerable.

"Sammy, you wanna tell me what's up?"

"No," Sam mumbled, staring at the bottle as if it had offended him.

Dean had a slight feeling of nostalgia for when Sam had been a happy drunk. "C'mon, Sam. I'm not about to talk about this when you're sober. So let's get this over now."

Sam just hunched down further. "Don' wanna talk," he slurred.

Dean sighed. "Spill, it dude. Is it about the trials?"

Sam's eyes snapped up to meet his with startling swiftness. "No. Not that." His gaze drifted slightly then.

Dean leaned forward. Time to play his hand. "Are you sure? Because I mean, it didn't take us that long to hunt down one hellhound. There's no time limit, you know. I can just . . ."

Sam stood violently, using his height to loom over Dean. "No," he growled, sounding way too lucid to be fully drunk. Dean frowned at the bottle. It had definitely been full before. So either Sam was just holding his liquor well, or somehow he had the trick of being both drunk and functioning. He briefly thought of what Sam had told him about the months when Dean had been in Hell and winced. Most likely the latter then.

Dean gave up (for the moment) his attempt to get Sam to change his mind about the trials. "Alright, then what?" He waited, expecting an explosion next.

Instead, Sam unsteadily made his way to the nearest bed and sank down onto it, shoulders slumped in a defeated posture. "You," he whispered.

Great. There were a million ways the conversation could go now, and Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't like any of them.

"What about me?" he asked carefully.

Sam's shoulders straightened slightly, and oh wonderful, his eyes were shining with tears. Dean wanted to go back to bed and pretend he was asleep, but it was too late for that now.

"You remember what you told me, back when we were hunting Azazel?"

Dean blinked. Out of everything Sam could say, that had been the last thing he expected. "What thing?" he questioned slowly.

"I'm gonna be the one to bury you," Sam intoned, like it was a direct quote. Dean blinked, pushing his mind back so far, past the Apocalypse, past Hell, past everything to the very beginning. He frowned slightly. Did Sam remember everything he had ever said? That was a frightening thought.

"Yeah," he hesitantly said, because he didn't know what else to say.

"It's funny," Sam mumbled.

Which didn't make any sense at all. Dean really wanted to be drunk himself right now. "What's funny?" he asked, allowing some of the annoyance to bleed through.

"I've always had to bury you." Sam stared at the floor. "And I can't do it again."

And just like that, the conversation took a turn for the worse. Dean grimaced, itching to run away or punch Sam or something. But he was the big brother here, and if they didn't talk now, it would come up in the middle of a hunt or something, which would be worse.

"Sam, c'mon. Still alive and kicking, right?" Dean offered, his first line of defense, laughing it off as something insubstantial.

Even in the dark, Dean could see how Sam's hands bunched in the sheets. "But you don't want to be. You want to die."

Dean swallowed. He didn't want to, not really, but sometimes he got so tired, and Sam always saw through him, always had . . .

"What happened to the 'light at the end of the tunnel,' Sammy? Or were you just making that up?" Dean analyzed his own words and felt a brief flash of anger. Of course Sam had to have been making that up. Light at the end of the tunnel . . . Dean had almost let himself believe in that.

"Not makin' it up."

Dean almost made a scoffing noise, but he could tell Sam wasn't lying (at least, deep down, he hoped he wasn't.)

"I want to have hope, but every time, it just blows up in my face." Sam's words were dark. Dean could practically see the despair hanging over Sam like a cloud.

Dean tried to re-direct their conversation. "So, this is about the trials? You don't think you can do them?"

Sam shrugged, a heavy motion that made him seem a hundred years old. "Doesn't matter. Somehow, I'll lose you. Again. Because that's how the story goes. Never changes, it's a cycle. First with the Mystery Spot, then with the hellhounds, and then . . . everything. Sometimes I think I'm still in Hell, and this is all a game Lucifer's playing with me. Letting me think everything will be okay before ripping it all away again."

Dean just sat there, stunned, unsure what to do with the many many different bombshells in Sam's little speech. "Sam . . ." he said helplessly.

Sam tilted his head back, a bitter smile on his face. "You die again, and I'm blowing my own brains out."

That was it. Dean rose from his chair and lashed out at Sam, catching him with a fist in the jaw. "You don't get to do this, Sam. You . . ." Dean broke off and rubbed at his mouth, unsure of what to do or say next. Dean hadn't realized it until just then, but he had relied on the fact that Sam was okay, that Sam was handling everything fine.

"I'm not strong enough." Sam had taken the blow and slid off the bed, had fallen to his knees, and he slumped over until he was leaning against the bed. "I'm not." His words were blending together, a hint of tears in his voice, and he just looked lost.

Dean dropped down beside him and drew his knees up to his chest, unutterably tired. "Neither am I, Sammy," he whispered.

Sam leaned into him, head on Dean's knees. Dean could feel the tears soaking through his sweats. "Dean," Sam said helplessly, and Dean knew what he had to do. He had never been able to deny Sam anything.

"We're going to be okay, Sam. I'm not going to leave you. That's a promise, okay? You and me. Last Winchesters standing, right? We'll make it to that stupid light of yours and we'll be alright."

Sam mumbled something unintelligible.

"You're so melodramatic," Dean muttered. Sam huffed a laugh against Dean's knee then, pulling his head up.

"Hey, I think I just got my big brother back. I'll be melodramatic again if I have to," Sam slurred.

For a second, Dean considered being angry that Sam had somehow manipulated him into this situation, but his little brother was looking at him like he was a superhero again, and it settled something back into place, slotting into place like a puzzle piece.

"You little bitch," he said, tousling Sam's hair. It had been years since the terms of endearment had been used, so much anger and pain between them, but it felt like coming home, back to what they once were.

Sam finally, finally smiled and it was all worth it. "Jerk."

* * *

**A/N:** Because c'mon. There's way too much wrong with Season 8, but I'll just keep trying to fix it to make myself feel better. This stupid show. I just can't seem to give it up. (though I think I'm quitting after this season). Ugh.


End file.
